


Free-flier

by Banbury



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-10
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:04:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banbury/pseuds/Banbury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you are lost all you need to fly higher to see the picture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free-flier

**Author's Note:**

> written for TS_Ficathon in 2008  
> my prompts were: Revelations (BtVS)/Easy Money (Due South)  
> Betaed by amasing and thoughtful janedavitt. Many, many thanks!
> 
> Boys are not mine, just playing...

_“…a seagull is an unlimited idea of freedom…”_  
Richard Bach “Jonathan Livingston Seagull”

 

 **  
_Part I A Seagull_   
**

 

 _I saw a ship a-sailing,  
A-sailing on the sea…_

If he could just remember what this _ship_ looked like. And _sea_ …

He was told he would see the ocean eventually, but for now, all he had was the sound of it. The waves rolled in on the beach, pebbly, judging by the echo, and huge white-grey birds that he'd been told were seagulls dropped like stones – what did _stones_ drop like anyway; he only remembered the saying – from his view to pick up a fish from the water. He'd never paid that much attention to them before – as far as he could recall – but they entranced him now. Not to mention, they were his only diversion from the pain, stillness, loneliness.

He was tired of this constant necessity to compare the words and the images. People were separated from their names, buildings from their locations, names from things – as if he had a box of incompatible puzzle pieces instead of a leather bound photo album with description under each picture inside his head.

 _… And oh but it was laden  
With pretty things for thee…_

One morning, his bed was raised and he could see the tops of the pines, swinging back and forth. Window glass barely rattled and he strained his hearing to recognize seagulls crying through the regular sound of the waves. It was peaceful. He didn’t know why it was so important for him to feel this peace, this silence around, to be silent. He sank in it, cocooned himself in the calm sounds of nature, shut himself off from all questions arising from inside and outside, from the necessity to discover himself within these remnants.

 _… There were comfits in the cabin,  
And apples in the hold..._

He didn’t remember much. Nurse Smithson was very insistent. Every morning, she brought a new list of questions from the doctor along with his pills and waited until he wrote a line or two as an answer.

Or just scrawled, “I don’t remember.”

That happened more often.

He didn’t remember much. Just bits and pieces like obscure images from an old film – heavily lined with scratches and coarse grain, fading sound and deformed perspective.

 _…The sails were made of silk,  
And the masts were all of gold…_

He didn’t remember where he was born; what he did for a living; whom he lov… It was easier to enumerate what he _did_ remember. Actually…

 

`````````

One morning he crossed out the doctor’s question and wrote underneath, “I do remember (more like I think I do) these things: I was in a car; I was with a friend (I think we were working together); I like to be outside; I like to watch birds, to fish, and Chinese cuisine. That pretty much covers all I know about myself. Leave me alone. And I don’t like milk.”

 _… The four-and-twenty sailors,  
That stood between the decks,  
Were four-and-twenty white mice  
With chains about their necks…_

At least he now knew what _milk_ was… and _mouse_ … but _why_ mice were sailors…well.

And that was practically all he remembered about himself. He wasn’t even sure he _did_ remember his own name or if he'd been told it.

In the afternoon, Nurse Smithson came in with Doctor Barrow and a wheelchair. “Come on, Joseph, I want you to meet somebody and then I’ll take you to the conservatory and you can watch the ocean,” She said.

Doctor Barrow stared at him intently, judging his reactions, and was seemingly satisfied, even if all Joseph manufactured was a shrug.

The doctor brought him through vast empty corridors to the other wing where the rooms faced mountains. The room they entered was decorated with warm ivory and dark green colours and there was a functional yet cozy looking couch at the far end near the door, two chairs, a coffee table and a tall chest of drawers. Dominating the room was a big hospital bed with a lot of beeping and cooing equipment around.

Blinds were drawn up and soft winter light reflected on the shaved head, sculptured nose, and chiseled features of a man lying motionless under the sheets, held away from his body by a frame. Joseph couldn’t see the other’s body properly but that was of of no consequence right now. He knew him.

He knew him!

Knew right to his bone marrow – knew the feel of the skin under his fingers even before he touched him; the pattern of even, light breathing; the way the other one wrinkled his nose when the shadow of a passing seagull blocked the sun out. _That_ was important! Not the name or address but the feel of the other man's hand in his, the awareness of what to say to him…

“Hey…” Joseph panicked for a second not sure how to address the other man – buddy, lad, _love_ – he really didn’t remember much except the feeling of closeness, “man, I’m here finally, you can feel me. Here. Here. Open those baby blues of yours.”

He felt an impalpable twitching of fingers in his hand for a moment and then the distant growl of a big animal, that sounded almost like *at last*, echoed in the back of his mind.

Joseph didn’t give away any of this and patiently waited, ignoring the doctor’s persistent tap on his shoulder as he asked, “How did you know his eyes were blue?”

He dropped off to sleep for some time without letting go of the other man's hand. Woke to eat his lunch in the same position. Watched distant trees, a man tending the lawn, and a little squirrel who sat on a branch of a nearby oak tree with a piece of bread. They made eyes at each other for a while until the beeping sound changed slightly and Joseph reached for a cup of water and offered it to the other one who opened his – disturbingly familiar - blue eyes that same moment. Out of habit.

Out of habit!

It was a miracle to do something out of habit!

 

`````````

Once Jacob… Ja-acob, Joseph rolled this name on his tongue. He liked it as much as he liked the man. He felt as if it meant more than simple name they were told of, that somehow he’d known it as well as the man it belongs to…

Once Jacob was strong enough to go around in a wheelchair, Doctor Barrow asked Nurse Smithson to bring both of them to his office.

Lone Pine Cliff Clinic was housed in a renovated old mansion built around the 1800s. The architect had left big windows, airy corridors, and cozy low windowsills with soft pillows to sit on. High ceilings, chandeliers, and stately draperies, even with the smaller rooms and modern medicinal equipment about still helped maintain the atmosphere of an old manor.

Joseph liked it here. He was glad he'd soon been allowed to wander through the corridors, staring at antique paintings, and through the English style garden, talking to an old gardener. It’d helped him a lot to acquire inner equilibrium and accept the whole situation. And he liked to bring Jacob an occasional pinecone or bird’s feather as a hello from outside.

He was provided unlimited access to the local library once the optometrist had cleared him to read. It was pure heaven. He’d read one and all – from studies on memory loss and famous memoires to Graves’ “Hebrew myths” and Wu Ch’êng-ên’s “Monkey”. And encyclopedias! He wasn’t sure he'd really appreciated the worth of them before… before.

He brought books to Jacob’s room and read to him during all tiring procedures, even when the other man didn’t hear a word through the haze Joseph could see he was lost in. They spent long hours talking, well, _he_ did almost all the talking, trying to shape their world, putting pieces of the puzzle together, painfully slowly. It was exhausting work.

Jacob was weak with all his medicinal problems, unable to move unaided, his asthenia. It wasn’t too bad when he just exploded and began to shout; worse when he shut all out, closed his eyes, and lapsed into total silence for a day or two. Joseph sat with him then for hours talking almost inaudibly until Jacob sighed and put his hand over Joseph's mouth.

`````````

It was the first time that he'd been asked to come to the doctor’s office. There were many old books in the bookcases and a beautiful tapestry with a knight and a dragon. What attracted Joseph’s attention the most was a box on the coffee table. A plain cardboard box and a vaguely familiar, battered leather backpack burned on one side.

Nurse stationed Jacob’s wheelchair near the small table and left when the doctor joined them. He looked a bit unsure of something, and was toying with a big envelope. He served herbal tea (“I receive it from my friend from Crete. Very calming and healing concoction. Try it, please.”)

They sat for a while, silently drinking their tea until Doctor Barrow cleared his throat and took several photos from the envelope. The photos were horrible – fire, terror-stricken people’s faces, figures trying to escape through bus windows, unidentifiable remains of vehicles and a gas station– but for unknown reasons both men surveyed them with steady calmness.

“They're from the accident,” explained the doctor unnecessarily. He tossed other papers from the envelope on the table and took out two burned drivers licenses. “The police found these, one checkbook, a key ring with two keys, a severely damaged phone book and a backpack. They are not sure it belonged to either of you but nobody has identified it yet.”

Doctor took the backpack and immediately put it down. “Actually, there is nothing useful in it – the laptop is dead, several books partly burned, as well as a notepad… so…” His voice trailed off as if this situation was new to him and he was unsure of what to do. “The police checked your names through several systems and came up with almost nothing. May I?” Doctor Barrow took one more list from the envelope and stiffened irresolutely.

Joseph sighed. He didn’t anticipate any miracle but the reality was actually depressing. He patted Jacob, who sat with his eyes closed, on the hand. “Please, doctor. It wouldn’t be any more pleasant, just… just finish with it already.”

Doctor Barrow cleared his throat and looked from one to another as if weighing his options. Then his eyes settled on Joseph. “Right. Sorry. ” He coughed and began to read from the paper monotonously, "Okay. Joseph …”

Joseph heard all the words but couldn’t apply them to himself. He wanted to shout *No, that’s not me*, but it was Jacob who voiced their confusion first.

“N-no-no-no-no-n-no-no-no-no-no-no”

He rocked in his wheelchair back and forth choking with strong emotions.

Joseph gripped him by the shoulders and shook him several times. ”Stop it, man. Stop it. It’ll be okay, we’ll…” He didn’t know what to say to him. There were no words in the world to make it all better. “Stop it. Please.”

They stayed like that for some time until the doctor forced a sedative down Jacob’s throat. Jacob swallowed it, shuddering. Heavy silence enveloped the three of them.

“Hmm.” The uncertain sound of Doctor Barrow’s voice drew their attention away from unwanted thoughts. “Should we take a walk? It’s quite warm outside and…”

Jacob cut through his words “Lead the way, doctor.”

They went outside. Doctor Barrow pushed Jacob’s chair and Joseph stumbled behind them with his cane sinking into thawed-out ground. “I know who you are.” Doctor Barrow suddenly turned towards Joseph. “I mean – really.” The young man stopped dead in the midst of the path. “Please, let’s go farther," the doctor said.

They spent several minutes walking in a heavy silence before they found themselves near a secluded gazebo halfway down to the beach.

“Hope it’ll be enough.” The doctor placed one rug on Jacob’s knees and gave the other one to Joseph. “Please, let me explain what I know and why I… why I think it’ll be better that way.” He ran his hand over thinning hair hesitantly.

“You never asked me where that accident took place.” They nodded their agreement. “It was near Eureka in Northern California. You were transferred to the hospital in Sacramento shortly after and one of my students who work in a clinic in Oakland went there to consult the other victim of that accident. He…”

“And now we are in…?” Jacob interrupted the doctor not very politely.

“You are in a private clinic not far from Ferndale, Northern Washington. Long way from Eureka, young men,” he chuckled humorlessly. “First and foremost, you should know I used to work for the government. Nothing spectacular – some scientific investigations for the army. I… I can’t tell you any details, let’s just say that when I saw an opening to flee, I took advantage of it without hesitation. I’m not on their list as an active participant, though they used my clinic several times for their purposes. The more important thing in our case is when my friends need help I can provide it … and a refuge.” Barrow fell silent though neither man acknowledged their understanding.

“Okay. Let's go to the heart of the matter.” He sighed, retrieved a bottle of water from the pocket of his coat and drank a little. “Matthew was my student a while back. We are still in close contact and he called me one evening about… exactly six and a half months ago. From a payphone at a small gas station between Sacramento and Oakland. He told me we had a case and he needed help to get two people in a very bad condition to my clinic. He told me he recognized…”

 _… The captain was a duck  
With a packet on his back,  
And when the ship began to move  
The captain said Quack! Quack!_

Joseph suddenly thrust both hands out as if trying to stop the next words. “No!” Unfathomable fear overwhelmed him. He didn’t want to know their real names or… or anything, as if it could put an end to his internal search for his identity. He didn’t want help from outside. He didn’t what to know who he was. He wanted to understand by himself

He freaked out when he realized that it could be that simple – just ask and he'd be answered. That the picture of the puzzle was not on the bottom of the box, but on the top.

“P-please…” Barrow frowned not understanding his sudden outburst. “P-please… Could you not tell us the whole story…”

Jacob evidently wasn’t sure what to make of this either. He leaned from his chair, trying to touch Joseph’s hand and Joseph found himself unexpectedly in the far corner of the gazebo crouching on the floor.

All of them gazed at each other for several painful seconds and then both Jacob and doctor nodded to him as if they realized his fears.

“I’m not sure…” Barrow rubbed his temple and helped Joseph up. “I’ll try, though…”

“Please, doctor.” Jacob smiled slightly at Joseph. The small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes were so familiar, as was his posture – relaxed, hands clasped between his knees, shoulders slumped forward a little – so homey, that Joseph calmed instantly. There was no fear near his friend. He felt a bit embarrassed and warm at the same time. “Could you tell us just one thing… for now, that’s it… what problems we might find ourselves in.”

“Certainly.” Barrow ran his hand over his hair. “Um, one… one of you is a scientist and he… hmm… wrote a paper, actually dissertation, on… hmm, doesn’t matter… Well. You,” he said in the air between them two, “found a special ability that might be interesting for the government, especially the army and government agencies. Your paper was revealed accidentally about… hmm… about two years ago. I don’t know if there were any other attempts to persuade you to work for them, I tried not to attract attention to this accident _de bene esse_. I’d assumed this accident could be persuasion gone wrong. Though… though there is this police work… but if you don’t want to know more, I’m not sure I should tell you any other assumptions of mine.”

Doctor Barrow fell silent. There were more questions, even if Joseph didn’t want to know more, but the most important thing for now was to look forward and let the past die down.

`````````

Doctor Barrow allowed Jacob out of the wheelchair in the beginning of summer. The weather was still a bit chilly for June, but the garden outside bloomed with rainbow colours and perfectly groomed lawns enticed them into lying down to read, observe birds, or even take a little nap.

Joseph spotted the perfect bench on the edge of the cliff and put his baseball cap, with a couple of pinecones inside, on the seat. He glanced back at Jacob who was struggling with his crutches, but decided against helping him. He sat down instead and took out a local guidebook, his constant companion these days.

Jacob plopped gracelessly beside him and reached for a bottle of water. After several minutes of companionable silence, Joseph cleared his throat and nervously clasped the book between sweating palms. “Doctor Barrow thinks we should stay here longer.” He felt Jacob’s hands began to massage his stiff shoulders. “He said I can help the gardener if we want some freedom.” He waited for a response but none came. “What do you…?”

A strong callused hand stroked his graying crew cut as if Jacob was calming a frightened animal. “We’ll figure something. We can do anything, don’t you think? We are strong, resourceful, and together.” Jacob’s voice soothed his thoughts like honeyed hot milk an aching throat.

Joseph nodded, sliding closer to him and let himself sink into the familiar warmth of his embrace. _They were together_. That was a blessing as well as part of the quicksand of their relationship.

They felt as though they’d known each other for ages, inside and out. However, there was nobody to confirm it and clarify the nature of it. Not that they particularly needed reassurance of any kind. They felt too strong a connection to each other to describe it in one straightforward definition. Uncertainty of what was _behind_ their connection was the kind of the last straw that could break the camel's back.

There was _nothing_ certain about them.

Still Joseph didn’t want to ask.

`````````

It was late autumn when they finally decided to move out of the clinic. They'd spent whole summer trying to figure out what they could do for a living. No! What they _wanted_ to do. Right, nodded Joseph to himself, they were free now to do what they wanted, not what others wanted of them. It was frightening, at first and still, though he wasn't sure which of them was the most scared.

He wasn’t sure what he would do if not for Jacob. It was like having a wall on to lean on if you were too tired to move. Literally and figuratively. Sometimes, he even forgot that Jacob was no less scared. Even more if these strange episodes were to count. Nevertheless, he instinctively knew what to do if problems arose.

They didn’t talk about it much and never with other people, even Doctor Barrow. Not that they didn't trust him. It was all about freedom. It seemed every breath was about freedom. Not that they talk about it, either.

It was strange to think they wouldn’t see this cliff and gardens every day. The clinic was the only home they'd ever known. A safe place, like a mother’s embrace. They didn't need to think where to go, what to do, what others thought of them. It was about freedom again. But by autumn they realized as liberating it was at first, it just held them back now. They were too comfortable here to be free.

Doctor Barrow helped them again. He wasn’t joking about refuge. As indifferent and grand as he seemed outside, as tolerant and good-natured he was in truth. He knew how to pull the best out of people, how to talk to them, what to tell to persuade them to side with him. Or to keep silence about. He read people like a book. And he loved them.

He knew all the right people.

They now had a small rented house on the outskirts of Bellingham on Bellingham Bay, close to Lummi Indian reservation, thanks to one of the nurses. Through their gardener they met a Native American teacher from the reservation who was also leading a local handicraft workshop. He went once into heated discussion with Jacob who'd spent half the summer restoring old furniture in the clinic – it seemed he could talk with the wood, he knew by gut feeling how much strength he should apply to any part of the woodwork and the wood seemed to like him in response. And now they were to help Matt Quicksilver with the workshop several days a week.

“Challay ?”

Joseph glanced at Jacob who sat on the back seat of the doctor’s old Buick – classic! – and grinned. Nothing could spoil this wonderful sunny day of their new life, even these strange words Jacob produced from time to time. He didn’t know what that meant but it sounded like an endearment. “You know, challay, I think we should celebrate such a nice day with barbeque. What do you think, doctor?”

“I’m quite positive, dear boy. Quite positive.” They'd become good friends over the last months. Alexander Barrow was a born healer – instinctively knowing what might be good for his patients, he also trusted their own instinct. That was why they hadn't once discussed Joseph’s decision to live their life day to day and were able to concentrate on pleasurable walks together, heated discussions about the world and ways of being, speculations on the increase of the squirrel population in the local pine forests and friendly silence in front of the TV with a six-pack, though the doctor preferred tea.

Joseph quietly listened to their friendly bickering about choice of meat and better marinade. The weather was warm for the end of October, the sun was bright and the countryside behind the car’s windows was spectacular with its mixture of green pines, maples in red, and birches in various shades of yellow. He smiled. He was content. He had the life of his choice, people around of his choice, a world to live in of his choice. And now all he had to do was fly out of the nest.

* * * * * * * * *

 _"The only true law is that which leads to freedom," Jonathan said. "There is no other."_ Richard Bach “Jonathan Livingston Seagull”

 

 **  
_Part II A Flock_   
**

**Two months AA. Christmas**

 _They called it AA – After the Accident. It was really different epoch, like BS – Before Sandburg._

Simon glanced up at Joel, who was hovering near the window and arched his eyebrow questioningly.

“That case… I just don’t know why you took it. It doesn’t make any sense,” Joel said.

Simon rose swiftly and covered the distance between him and Joel with one big step, then said in a low voice, “First – it was a request from the mayor’s office. And second – I thought Jim could’ve…” He clenched his hands into tight fists, feeling like punching them through the window and sighed. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t make any sense.”

“You think Jim would take it?” Joel said it almost pleadingly, desperately trying not to look towards Jim’s table. The younger man had been back at the bullpen for almost a month now and, though fully cleared by a psychologist, was still on desk duty. It was so unlike Jim that nobody even tried to talk to him about it. He was like a ticking bomb; even Simon was extremely cautious around him these days.

Simon sighed again and in what had become a habit, picked up a statuette of a black angel with a laptop that Blair had given him for Christmas the year before. He was so bone-tired, exhausted by a lack of sleep and a too heavy caseload, but mostly with an absence of something vital in his life – not only Blair, but Jim also, though the latter sat not far from him at his desk. Jim wasn’t just the same anymore. It was as if a light bulb had been switched off and then smashed to pieces. And Simon was dead beat by it.

From the first moment he'd heard Jim’s scream through the phone, he'd been in hell. He'd thought for a second that he'd lost both of them. For a long time after the initial shock, he felt sick, torn by two opposite feelings – heavy grief for Blair and gratitude for the still-breathing Jim. When Jim was released from the hospital, all fell apart, once and for all. Jim’s senses weren’t responding to any stimuli and he’d returned to the Jim Simon remembered from the past – cold, silent, and snappish.

Simon put the angel down feeling a bit warmed and thought reluctantly that he had to ask Jim to come to his place for Christmas dinner. So much for his festive mood. He raised his eyes to Joel again. “Don’t know, man. Just don’t know.”

 

`````````

 **14 months AA. Christmas**

Simon swept away the snow and put a cookie on the gravestone. He hadn't thought of coming here before, but being near and seeing all the flamboyant decorations and hearing songs that Blair loved to murmur now and again had just led his steps there. And the cookie seemed strangely appropriate.

He sat on the bench nearby and took a bite of the other cookie. “You see, Blair, we all really miss you. Never thought I’d miss you speaking. Jim is so quiet now and so distant. We’ve not gone fishing once this year with him. And he doesn’t like to talk about your time together. He gave all your clothes to charity and some of your books to an orphanage. He’s even told me he wants to sell the loft – can you imagine that!”

Simon debated with himself whether to tell Blair that Jim’s senses had gone dormant for good, but decided against it. It sounded like the ultimate betrayal and Simon didn’t want to give upon it yet.

They'd talked about Jim's senses a couple of times in the early days. Jim had been high-strung and dashed aside any support. He’d snapped at Simon, then apologized and told him he tried every trick Blair taught him but it seemed all his senses were numb. The next time the question had arisen, he just shook his head, “Nothing new.” It was difficult for all of them and nobody dared to ask again.

“We had a memorial service for you on the 25th of October. Jim brought Naomi from the retreat in Israel and his brother was there too. You know, the day was wonderful: the weather was just what you’d like – warm for the end of October; the sun was bright; and the forest by the river – do you remember our favorite fishing spot – was just how you’d want to see it - all green pines, red maples, and yellow birches. I’d had to look over my shoulder a couple of times, because I swear, I heard you speaking to me…”

Simon finished his cookie, felt in his coat pocket and fished out a small glass silver-plated snowflake. “Merry Christmas, son.” He put it gently near the cookie on the stone and sat on his haunches for a while, not saying a word, not even thinking.

Finally, he stood up, checked the time, and went to the entrance. Something caught his attention and he lifted a piece of a children’s puzzle from the ground. There was a part of a seagull on the picture. Simon turned it several times in his hand, his thoughts drifting back to Blair, and mechanically put in his pocket.

`````````

 **26 months AA. Christmas**

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jim. I know it’s your case, but I’ll be in Seattle the whole week and it’ll take half a day at most to check on your suspect. You already have more than enough cases to work on, and that lead will give you nothing important to add, just confirm your suspicions.” Simon took the file from Jim’s hand with finality.

“If you say so.” Jim was clearly in a dismal mood, but it was so common state of mind for him the last couple of years that nobody made anything of it. “Okay, but you’ll call if there’s more…”

“You have my word.” Jim glared at Simon and left the room without waiting to be dismissed.

Simon and Joel exchanged meaningful glances. “Keep an eye on him, please, Joel.” The other man nodded sadly. “I’ll be on call. Daryl only wanted me there to meet his girlfriend’s parents, so… I’ll have enough time for anything interesting.”

The official family Christmas dinner was scheduled for tomorrow but Simon didn’t like his lone home just now and had decided to go to Seattle that afternoon and spend Christmas Eve there for a change. He had his luggage already packed and in the trunk and after wishing his friends a merry Christmas, he was on his way.

There were traffic jams practically all the way up and he wondered whether it was wise to go today. But the moment he checked into the hotel, changed into jeans, a warm sweater and a jacket, all changed. The air was crisper than in Cascade and smelled faintly of pine, apples, cinnamon, and hot wine. Downtown was full of laughter and festivities, as people drifted through small homey cafes and posh restaurants. He didn’t feel as forgotten by life as he was at home.

He walked a couple of blocks and then spotted a big, brightly lit café near what seemed to be a museum building. He didn’t realized what had attracted his attention until he opened the door. The whole place was decorated with Indian style rugs, wooden pagan figurines, and native paintings. It reminded him of Blair so vividly that he panicked and almost slammed the door again when a matronly waitress took his arm and pulled him to the vacant seat at a table with a young couple sitting at it.

“Don’t even think about it,” she told Simon when he tried to protest. “We are very nice people and you need to have somebody cheerful around.” She brought him a big plate with a huge salad of beans, greens, pumpkin, and small meatballs with plain flat cakes. “Try this one, dear. I’ll bring you more; I just know what you’ll enjoy the best.” She smiled encouragingly and he wasn’t all that surprised that that he actually loved the salad and the roasted meat with grilled vegetables she brought later. He even had second helpings of cherry-apple pie.

The young pair at his table appeared to be university students. They were cousins studying engineering and their mothers were from the Indian reservations not far from Seattle. Simon listened with half an ear to their explanation about the museum of Native American Culture nearby – surprisingly he'd guessed right – and the Native Culture Centre that was the heart of the local community. All of the patrons were actually local residents and this kind of Christmas Eve dinner was traditional.

Simon gazed at the wall behind their table where several wooden sculptures were mounted on a shelf. “You can take a closer look.” His waitress appeared out of nowhere with a cup of coffee and took one of the sculptures from the shelf. “It’s our yearly little exhibit of local craftsmen.”

The work was beautiful – a young woman with a child in a sling, reading a book. He didn’t know what kind of wood it was – light yellow with darker streaks, smooth, a bit cool to the touch. Simon put it down carefully and took another one – a strong masculine hand holding a knife, made using the same wood. There were several other objects like a nibbled apple or a dead seagull. On the far end of the shelf were some more sculptures of darker wood. Simon stretched and left his seat.

Most of the patrons were already finished and were wandered around the room, talking and drinking. An old man stood near the exhibit and handled one of the sculptures. Simon examined the others on the shelf glancing towards him from time to time. “Would you like to take a look?” The man offered the sculpture to Simon and added, “The artist is my good friend, and I have some of his works at home.”

“Is it a portrait?” Simon gazed at the figure in his arms. There was something disturbing in its posture – a man sitting by a wall. He couldn’t make out his face, but there was something familiar about him, Simon just couldn’t pinpoint what exactly. He looked closely but had no luck.

The old man touched Simon and gave him the other figure. “I think it’s the same man.” Simon smiled at him and peered into the sculpture’s face. Then it hit him. He was looking at Blair’s smiling features. With a crew cut and without glasses but there was no mistaking him. These high cheekbones, full lips, the light crinkles in the corners of the eyes – even if he haven’t seen his friend for over two years he all but heard his laughter. Jim would be… Simon shuddered and collapsed on the nearest chair.

“Are you all right?” The waitress tugged him by the sleeve and gave him a glass of water.

“I… don’t know.” Simon frantically glanced around trying to spot the old man, but he'd disappeared into thin air. “Have you seen… Never mind. Do you know the artist?”

The woman shrugged. “He’ll be here in a week or so.” Simon made an impatient gesture. “Or I can give you his phone number.” She looked at him thoughtfully, then tore a page from her notepad, scribbled something on it, and handed Simon.

*Matt Quicksilver, Lummi Indian reservation…*

`````````

 

Simon had woken up three or four times during the night, but it was still too early to call anybody and finally he got up at dawn, put on the warmest of his clothes and went outside. The sky was pale violet with streaks of deep purple, red, blue, pink, and gold as if he could see reflections of the Northern Lights. A light snow dusted the sidewalks and he glanced back to look at his footprints. A MacDonald’s next door provided him with a decent cup of coffee and a bag of muffins. Life wasn’t that bad, after all.

Simon drifted in the direction of the harbor, checking the time now and then. He looked forward to having Blair’s image in his hands again, whatever it cost him. He wasn’t sure he would show it to Jim, though. There was something so off when he tried to talk to his friend about Blair; he was glad now that Blair had left with him all his books and papers relating to sentinels not long after the incident with his dissertation. He had some pictures of them fishing or playing poker and one or two knick-knacks given by Blair, that was all. The last time he was at the loft there were still many of Blair’s things scattered about but that was almost two years ago and Simon wasn’t sure they were there anymore.

Now that he thought about it, nobody talked to Jim about moving on. That was strange. Like Jim wasn’t theirs now, a footloose person.

Simon glanced at his watch and decided to call, hoping ten o’clock on Christmas morning wasn’t too early. It turned out that it wasn’t. Matt -- he refused to be addressed as ‘Mr. Quicksilver’-- was quite understanding and told Simon, that sure, he could have the sculpture from the exhibit or he could come to their craft store in Bellingham and look for something else. They agreed to meet at Bellingham the next day at noon.

It was… calming. For the first time in years, he felt tingling anticipation and was grateful for little Christmas miracles.

`````````

Bellingham turned out to be quite a big industrial city known as the “City of Subdued Excitement” with all its predictable wonders of local history and art museum, railway museum, maritime Heritage Park and some beautiful scenery. Simon kept glancing towards Mount Baker on his way to the craft store and thought it would be nice to come here in summer and find a mountain river to fish and hike.

He parked his car and stood some minutes window-shopping before entering the store. There were several people around but he spotted a tall, buff man in overalls with two braids behind his back and decided that he must be Quicksilver. The man was big, even bigger than Dan Wolf was, though on a more slender side. It was strange to think his large hands could make such delicate things as wooden sculptures. The man turned to Simon.

There was uneasiness around him. The man eyed Simon, visibly deciding whether he could trust him. “Hi. You must be Simon Banks.”

“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you.” Simon held his hand out. The other’s handshake was strong and firm. He gestured silently to a display on the far wall covered with statuettes of various sizes.

“Please.”

Simon made his way to it. He examined figures until he found three wooden sculptures that resembled Blair very much. He picked them up and held each to the window, looking them over tentatively. They were fragile and strong at the same time. Simon touched them with great care, trying to decide which one he liked better.

“When did you make them?”

Quicksilver lifted his head up from the carving he worked on. “This summer.”

Simon paused. “But…” He frowned trying to remember what the old man had said him yesterday. “The man at your exhibition yesterday told me they were portraits!”

“Yes, all figures are portraits.” Quicksilver shrugged and clearly didn’t understand Simon’s concern.

Banks rubbed his temple. “Sorry, I just hoped you somehow knew my friend and it was really his portrait.” He pulled out his wallet and brought an old picture of the three of them on a fishing trip over to the other man. They stared at it for while and Quicksilver finally raised his head.

“I see. The smaller man must be your late friend.” Simon nodded, putting the wallet back. “And the other one?”

“Ah, it’s Jim. Jim Ellison. He was very good friends with Blair. He changed so much since his death. Not how he used to be.” It was pure luck that Simon looked at the other man that very moment or he could never have seen the strange emotion that flickered in his eyes. “What?”

Quicksilver shook his head and glanced over Simon’s shoulder. Someone said from behind, “Merry Christmas, Matt.”

Simon turned around, his legs suddenly weak, and he had to clutch at the nearby chair for support.

There was a man standing in the open back doorway. Jim.

`````````

 **Here and now**

 

A lone seagull dove into the water and Simon all but felt salty splashes on his face. He turned from the window to the three men sitting at the round dining table beside the fireplace. The room was fairly large and was being used as a living room combined with a kitchen. The far wall was piled with bookshelves; there were a lot of paintings, photos, and various Native American knick-knacks. It reminded him a little of the loft. Simon felt at home here, though neither of his hosts remembered him.

Blair was thinner than when he saw him last, with disturbingly short-cropped hair, just like Jim's used to be, and it set off his features sharply. Jim was… well, Jim. Just like Simon had seen him two days… oh, my God, silently screamed Simon, I saw Jim… two days ago. I saw Jim two days ago! Two days ago, I knew Jim was alive and now… Now what?

“Let’s get this straight. I saw Blair…dying. There was a man with a video camera and he filmed some of the accident. I saw… you… enveloped in flames. I…” Simon fell silent and wasn’t sure if they were feeling the same helplessness and despair he’d felt then. “Jim…” He stumbled over the name again. “Damn, I just don’t know how to speak of… of two Jims. It’s like that fucking Mark Twain story about the prince and the pauper.”

The others looked at him sympathetically. Matt was the one who'd told Simon what had happened, starting from the accident. Though he did know of all that from Doctor Barrow’s words he actually helped him in finding more details about Jim and Blair's life in Cascade. Matt even knew about the _other_ Jim and that was why he hadn't intended to tell Simon that his sculptures were of a real, breathing Blair. Joey. Joseph Barrow. Joseph “Challay” Barrow. Passionate collector of folklore songs and stories, teacher of art and interesting painter. Very Blair-shaped Joey Barrow.

Simon sighed and rubbed his temples. “Okay. So, Jim in Cascade isn’t the real Jim… I mean Jacob… I mean… May I call you Jim?” He was sick to death of the whole story and tired of trivial nuisances like the need to check names before saying something. He just couldn’t bring himself to call his friends other names than their usual Jim and Blair, though he clearly realized that the old Jim and Blair were truly and finally dead. There was so microscopic a chance they could regain their memories that he had to accept their new names to be able to build a new friendship with them. He didn't intend to let them vanish into thin air.

“So… let’s look from the other perspective. I’m not sure it was a government affair – too many things could go wrong. And then there’s the _other Jim_ which doesn't make any sense in the scheme of things. It’s more like an FBI operation – agent penetration of a closed organization, just the other way round. I mean…” Simon stumbled at the thought and froze.

“You mean, like organized crime had wanted to put their man into an effective position, and what could be a more advantageous situation than a man grieving over a dead close friend and suspected lover.” Jim said it very slowly as if he was trying to test the feasibility of the idea.

“Good thinking, Jim. Were you really lovers?” Simon said it without thinking, then actually blushed, and stuttered, trying to say something appropriate. “Sorry, Ji… Jacob. I j-just…”

`````````

Jacob and Joey glanced at each other. They were both out of tune here. On the one hand, it was strange to speak to somebody who knew them in their previous life and it was deeply uncomfortable not to remember their friend. On the other hand, the situation with the accident was still raw to them and seeing it from the other point of view didn’t make it better. All in all, they just weren’t ready to dive into their past.

And _that_ question was no less confusing. Their friends knew they were lovers. With it being impossible to find out about their previous relationships, it was difficult to talk to Simon. Equally hard to explain him just _why_ they'd become lovers. It began as two souls lost in an unfamiliar world. However, their mutual attraction ran so deeply that it was difficult not to yield to it, not to surrender.

“I don’t know whether we were then.” Jacob fixed his eyes on Simon. He watched as a frown became an understanding smile, acceptance appearing quickly on the dark face and was suddenly deeply glad he'd gone to the shop just in time to meet him. It was calming to know they had had this man as a friend, especially in the light of what they’d been told.

“Do you think my idea is possible?”

Simon put down a puzzle piece he was toying with and met his eyes. “More than possible. I’ll certainly ask Kelso to check agencies, but with _my_ …” Simon pulled a face with those words, “ _Jim_ , all pieces fell into place. I’ll call Joel and Megan to begin checking him and…” Simon must’ve seen Jacob’s confused stare and he quickly finished, “It doesn’t matter now. You’ll meet them later.”

Jacob glanced at Joey. He was the one who'd wanted to start their life from scratch, but Joey wasn’t worried or upset. He sat with a notepad, paying no attention to the others and traced strange patterns on the paper. “Challay? What do you…”

Joey held up one finger without looking at him as he always did when he didn’t want to be interrupted. He chewed on the pen thoughtfully, crossed something out, and put his pen down. “Okay, guys, let’s see what we have here.” Simon watched him with awe. Joey grinned and waved them all to come closer. “So, here we are as some unknown quantity. And here are the two lines of investigation… let’s see… That Kelso guy and state issues and the Jim guy and criminal issues. I think you should make that Mister Kelso talk to my stepfather Doctor Barrow…”

`````````

Simon blinked and tried to concentrate. It was pure wonder to see that Blair -- this new Blair -- was exactly as he used to be. Simon wasn’t now surprised that Doctor Barrow made him his stepson, it was pleasure to be near Joey. He hadn't lost his touch to see things through and his analysis of the situation was thorough and precise. Simon found himself nodding agreeably.

“But first thing… Simon, do you hear me?” He blinked and nodded. Joey smiled. “Okay then. So, first thing you should look into is finding a person who was able to gather data on Jim, maybe even film him or give that fake Jim opportunity to watch him. What do you think, J?”

Jacob absently shrugged, writing something on Joey’s paper. “Easy money is the first rule for such things. Find a man with need and you can do anything.”

Simon could have suggested that on his own but it was quite fascinating to watch his best team at work again. He was somewhat disappointed though that Joey was skeptical on the whole sentinel thing. It was so strange to be the one who were explaining it all and trying to persuade the younger man to look into it. Jacob told him that his senses were okay as far as they know, but without previous data, they knew next to nothing.

He used it not constantly but regularly. Joey had begun to test him only this summer when they got settled and were done with the additional therapy prescribed by Doctor Barrow. That was the most un-Blairlike thing Simon heard from them. He was tired of the continuous effort to divide _these_ people from his old, dear friends.

Simon sighed. He realized suddenly that all his tiredness was nothing short of sadness and hopelessness – not like during Blair’s funeral but… no, exactly like that. He'd found him… them only to lose them again. He wanted to throw that statuette of Blair they'd given him, to tear up the photos; he wish he could hit somebody. Then he grinned and imagined Joel’s face when he saw these pictures and Megan’s squeak when…

“By the way, Simon, do you know we have the perfect spot for winter fishing here on the lake?”

He stared incredulously into J’s face. Had he heard that right? But then… maybe life wasn’t that bad after all…

 

* * * * * * * * *

 _“…keep working on love…”_  
Richard Bach “Jonathan Livingstone Seagull”

 

 **  
_Part III Children of a Great Gull_   
**

 

Joey stepped out of his slippers and plopped on the bed near Jacob who was leaning against a pillow and reading a book.

“Oh, shit! I didn’t realize my back could hurt so much from friendly hugs.” Jacob chuckled and he snorted in response. “Just don’t you dare laugh. I didn’t realize I had so many friends. You couldn’t…”

“I could! Oh, see if I could. If you think of how many friends you’d found here for the last two years…” Jacob began to shake from silent laughter and turned on his side.

“I still don’t like that you didn’t come with me. Simon was disappointed. Everybody wanted to see you. Just everybody!”

“What did they call you?” Joey shrugged and said nothing. “Blair, right? Don’t you think it’d be uncomfortable to be _Jim_ when the other one was finally charged and put under arrest only a couple days ago. For me, anyway. So, what did Simon tell you? Is he still trying to convince you to return to Cascade?”

“Nope. Not without you, _anyway_.” Joey turned to his other half and began to stroke lazily down his arm. “Just as we thought – quite predictable, messy and effective for the other side case. Oh man, he was good. If I hadn’t known where you were, I could’ve easily mistaken him for the real thing. He even walks like you and snaps like you do when you are tired. And he was quite a good cop. He wouldn't be able to blend in so well if he wasn’t.” Jacob sighed and nodded thoughtfully.

“Do you know his name?”

“What do you think, J? I’m telling you he was good – he was in plastic surgery beforehand and even Kelso couldn’t identify his fingerprints through his secret channels. He’s not talking and he pleaded guilty the first thing.” Jacob opened mouth to say something but Joey shook his head. “No. He had access to too many cases, not only in Major Crimes. Guy tried to check his own cases but still… he was too subtle. You should go there! Believe me, you have to look into his eyes. Sometimes it works.”

“’m not sure. Even if he’ll tell us who were behind this, which I doubt, there are too many people involved.” Jacob pulled his lover closer and began to massage his back and shoulders. “What about an accident?”

“Mmm. Keep doing that.” Joey stretched a little and chuckled to himself – discussing a crime case containing their own near-murder during foreplay was something new to him. But then it all felt so distant, foreign compared to their life here. What interested him now was a planned excursion to Seattle with his class, the approaching Halloween and big fancy-dress party, Jacob’s order for the furniture for a new B&B down the coast, his own upcoming article on the evolution of Lummi children’ tales in the collected articles “Native American in the Northwest”…

It was good to see people glad he was alive, to hear stories about _Blair and Jim_. He couldn’t bring himself to think of them as connected to himself and Jacob, even after he'd read all the sentinel materials from an old box stored in Simon’s attic and recognized most of the signs. Truth be told, he already had vague idea about a book on sentinels. Mostly to honor the memory of _former them_. But _present them_ flew different paths, they had the whole vast sky before their eyes…

“Mmm… they couldn’t… mmm, here, here…they couldn’t reconstruct exact events, something went wrong, it seemed somebody had to knock us out and leave us in the car while fake Jim was on the phone, but the someone in the car wasn’t me, though… mmm, more… though with my documents and videotape they had all evidence… a-ah… so they weren't sure…” His words died on his lips when Jacob began to lick his neck while massaging his shoulders.

“Did they find out that one who helped to sell me out?” Joey moaned and said then something quite inarticulate. “Yes?”

“Yes, yes! They found him just fine, in the cemetery. Don’t divert your attentio-mmm… yeah…” J laughed in a low husky voice and pressed his tongue into Joey’s ear. That diverted their attention from the previous theme and the last coherent thought in Joey’s head was that it was quite the revelation to see himself with long hair. It might be worth trying… He moaned again. J flipped him on his back and began to undo his buttons aiming his attentions at already hard nipples. Teasing teeth scratched raised flesh lightly and Joey gasped, and arched his back up. “A-aha. Tha-that's good.” J chuckled evilly and licked his navel. Joey stilled and shuddered.

The world seemed clearer, air – fresher, and the ocean sounded like a gondolier’s song – as if he’d ever heard one – and Jacob’s lips on his skin, fingers caressing his hardness felt achingly fantastic. Joey shuddered again. Warm air from J’s mouth puffed into his ear.

“Wanna fly?”

 

 _“Most gulls don't bother to learn more than the simplest facts of  
flight - how to get from shore to food and back again. For most gulls, it  
is not flying that matters, but eating. For this gull, though, it was not  
eating that mattered, but flight. More than anything else.”_  
Richard Bach “Jonathan Livingstone Seagull”

 _Challay_ \- ‘Beautiful’ in Quechua


End file.
